


Rooted Iridescence

by astramaxima (shotgunsinlace)



Category: Birb People - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24316198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/astramaxima
Summary: Caring for a missing prince is harder than he thought when they can barely see each other eye to eye.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 112





	Rooted Iridescence

**Author's Note:**

> Art trade for [CrimsonChains](https://twitter.com/CrimChain)!
> 
> Ever since seeing her [birb people designs](https://crimson-chains.tumblr.com/tagged/Birb-People) I couldn't help but fall in love with them, and I am extremely honored to have been able to write a little something for them!

Amidst all the uncertainties of life, there are two things Pyrr knows for certain. The first is that the young man currently twirling through the ancient trees of his homeland with pale feet barely ever touching the sacred ground is a prince. The second is that, because he is, Pyrr is in a cove-load of trouble.

Years of deeply rooted instinct urge him to leave the prince at the Line, have him fend for himself before trackers come scouting the area with even the smallest excuse to light up the land. For the sake of his people, Pyrr comes close to doing so, but changes his mind the moment he sees sunlight trap itself in the prince’s dark irises.

“Nothing yet?” Pyrr says, carefully reaching in through a bush to pluck the purple berry nestled among spiked flowers. Softer hands would have bled. “Time’s running out.”

“You don’t think I’d let you know?” The prince hops daintily from boulder to moss covered boulder, carefully pinching up the gossamer fabric of his ceremonial robes as if to not dirty them. Wasted effort given the tinge of greens and browns now staining their hems. “Your hesitance regarding the function of this incantation doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

The way he says _incantation_ makes Pyrr want to abandon the impossible task of searching for the right ingredients to the Aviarius Memoriae. Let the prince meander until someone else heals him from the assumed malady that has him trailing meekly like some newborn chick. But he won’t. He can’t find it in himself to abandon such a frail looking thing. “Sorry I can’t sing you better.”

The prince pauses, looking Pyrr over with a muted smile. “Magic is magic, even where there are extra steps involved.”

“Tell that to the rest of your kingdom.”

“Are we really this unpleasant?”

Pyrr snorts, but the derisive sound comes out more like a whistle. He tries to focus on the berries he’s picking, carefully dropping them into his satchel before straightening up and marching further into the thicker patches of woodland. “Try to keep up, your Excellence.”

“I asked a question!”

“And I already gave you an answer. It’s not my problem you didn’t like it the first time you heard it.”

“The first time I heard it I was confused. I’m still confused. It’s been a week and I still don’t know where I am, how I got here, or my name!”

Pyrr whips around, bringing the prince who had been stumbling behind him to a dead stop. “Pull your wings in.”

“What?”

“Pull your wings in and it will be easier to walk through here. No type of amnesia is strong enough to override instinct.” Pyrr reaches for one of the white wings, but the prince is quick to backpedal. “Easy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The prince crosses his arms over his chest, his pout as well as the fleeting onceover he gives Pyrr two very telling gestures. “I know you’re not! They’re just… they’re just sensitive. I don’t like them being touched.”

“You weren’t complaining last night.”

“That was _different_.”

“Well, if you don’t bring them in you’re going to find yourself in the same predicament as last night. This time it’ll likely be more serious than a handful of seeds.”  
The prince hurriedly grabs a fistful of his own feathers, tugging his wings around him and peeking out through an awkwardly groomed cluster of his primaries. The ivory horns on his head bump into the branches of a nearby tree, startling him into an ungainly fumble that has him falling onto a mound of dry leaves with a gasp. “I’m fine!” he grumbles from behind his wings, curling in on himself.

Pyrr hides his smirk behind his hand. He approaches the prince with slow easy steps, looking over the top of his white wing to make sure the prince really is alright. “These may be your lands, your Excellence, but I know them far better than a lot of our kind.” He hooks the satchel to his belt then sits on the ground, keeping a fair distance from the flustered prince. “I’m not trying to demean you in any way.”

“You’re trying to protect me.”

“Sure.”

“But you can’t just take me back home.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Because you fear for your life.”

Pyrr is quiet for a moment, thoughtfully looking down at his claws as the prince nearly shivers beside him. “I fear for the livelihood of my clan,” he explains.

The prince brings his wings tighter against him before letting go of them altogether, allowing them to rest by his sides. He’s still curled up tight as he begins to fiddle with his clothes, the golden bands nearly blending in with the luscious paleness of his skin. “This may be an idiotic question but… why not ask for forgiveness?” Rubbing his shoulders as if to warm them up, the prince side-eyes Pyrr.

“Forgiveness?”

“Clearly your kind are not the evildoers you claim my kind insists you are!”

Pyrr is taken aback, eyebrows scrunched together. “You say _kind_ as if we aren’t the same species.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

“You make it sound like we’re different,” the prince says, taking a lock of his blond hair and idly twirling it around his finger. He faces forward, eyes downcast. The flush on his cheeks makes his freckles shine like starlight. “I don’t mean any ill intent to the one who rescued me, or anyone else, really. Navigating unknown territory while _navigating unknown territory_ is difficult when you can’t recall who you were just a week ago. You say I’m a prince with horrible practices, but I… I can’t believe that. I don’t want to believe that.” His eyes gleam with unshed tears. “I’m trying to pull myself together with nothing but the words of a stranger.”

Sunlight spills through the trees when the wind rustles their leaves, creating fleeting half-circle shadows across the forest floor. The cloying scent of fruit lingers, coming off the prince’s skin as if it were perfume, permeating the lulling flow of air that dances through hair and feathers alike.

It’s as alluring as it is dangerous, an invitation to compromise on the unsteady land they rest upon.

Pyrr fishes one of the berries he has just picked from inside his satchel and offers it on an open palm to the prince in the form of a peace offering. “You should be hungry.”

“I thought those were for the spell.”

“It can wait. I don’t want to carry you back if you collapse again.”

The prince uncoils, nearly radiating a preternatural glow as he offers a timid smile in return. “I won’t,” he says, taking the berry anyways and accidentally brushing their hands together. He doesn’t shy away from the touch, but his cheeks tinge a pretty pink. “Thank you.”

“We’ll pack something to peck on tomorrow considering we will need to venture further beyond the grove if we want what’s left of those ingredients. The tome may be old, but it hasn’t led me astray yet. Find the flower, and everything else will come to us along our trek,” Pyrr says, flicking a green berry into his own mouth. It’s bitterer than he expected. Not yet in season. “Play it by the book and I’m certain it will all go accordingly. No limbs lost, no pudding between your ears.”

The prince blinks at him, wide-eyed. “You never mentioned any pudding!” He covers his ears as if said dessert were preparing to ooze out at any given moment, and Pyrr laughs.

“No need to worry, Highness. Even if the Aviarius Memoriae is a near impossible incantation to perform, I have an impeccable rate of success. You’ll be home in no time.”

The prince nods his head, scooting a little closer and finally, with the smallest of sighs, lets his guard down. Careful to keep his wings to himself, he has no qualm with pressing the soft pads of his fingers against Pyrr’s arm, tracing the outlines of the dark patterns with blatant curiosity. “Will you tell me what these symbols mean?”

Withdrawing his dark wings farther away in hopes the prince will get closer, Pyrr presents his arm. He doesn’t immediately answer the question, allowing him to explore without reservation the intricate assortment of patterns. “It would take a long time.”

“I like stories.”

“And I’m pretty sure you won’t like the ones I have to tell.”

“You won’t know that until you tell them.” The prince leans forward, pressing his forehead to the knob of Pyrr’s shoulder in an almost ceremonial fashion. He backs away with a soft look in his black eyes, and it’s Pyrr’s turn to long for the stories hidden behind the shimmering veil of magic different from his own.

“Let’s get you fixed up first,” he says, carefully dragging a talon along the back of the prince’s hand. To his surprise, he doesn’t pull away. “Then, we can tell all of our stories nestled around a warm fire.”

“I would very much like that, oh wise mage.”

“Good, oh spoiled prince.”

The prince laughs, pausing only to turn his head towards the archway made of thick knotted branches as ancient as the wood itself. “At times it feels like my own name is on the tip of my tongue, but it refuses to spill out of me as easily as my song.”

“Don’t strain yourself. Might make matters worse.”

“I don’t intend to,” he says, reaching up to boldly tuck a lock of raven hair behind Pyrr’s ear. “I do intend to make the most of my time in this state. No use hurrying perfection.”

Swatting the prince’s hand away with an amused huff, Pyrr digs his heels into the warm earth. “Truly a hard seed to crack.”

“Perhaps I’m made of stronger stuff,” the prince says.

The mage nods his head, softly running his own calloused hands across the soft fabric of the dirtied white robes that cascade down the prince’s frail frame. “I can only hope so.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on twitter @ **[astramaxima](https://twitter.com/astramaxima)!**


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